The Emergency Exit Row: Why Creatives Won’t Stop Trying to Save the World

In the current state of the global conversation about culture, being asked to represent or showcase your culture is a bit like being asked if it’s OK to sit in the emergency exit row of a plane. Everyone blindly relying on the idea that your general life experience so far has given you a fighting chance that, if the entire system (and everyone in it) shows signs of doom, you, and you alone, will not panic.

You will majestically deliver a seemingly simple, safe (but potentially exciting) recovery plan for everyone to slide down. Resulting in probably a great story for a Netflix documentary. All this while potentially being under the influence of free gin and tonics, and ideally wearing the correct footwear. A little daunting, no? But for reasons I can’t really explain, it’s a responsibility that a lot of us creatives don’t mind having a go at. (And if you were the team behind Bad Bunny’s halftime show—absolutely epic win.)

The world is in a state at the moment. No one needs to remind you of that, least of all me. But when it comes to makers, coaches, performers, grant writers, producers, etc., the geopolitical implications we’re experiencing are vast—and a bit overlooked.

Political parties seem to forget this when delivering their manifestos and allocating arts funding. So many social, economic, healthcare, infrastructure, and tax policies are intrinsically linked to the arts. From basic access to art and culture in poor communities, or teaching drama in schools, to giant ultra-processed food (UPF) conglomerates like Nestlé and Unilever undercutting local food culture (or baby food). From TikTok’s fast, constant handheld performances, to full protests from Christian groups at opera houses, for shows they never saw, but heard about scene rumoured to feature the ‘first lesbian Pope’. Even football culture (which I do include) is tapping in, with comments about immigrants when half the English Premier League is filled with players from other nations—they’re rich though, and white guys like them (at least while they’re winning)—so they’re “expats.” Cultural battles, big and small, are firing up everywhere… and let’s not even start on AI.

I don’t know about you, but I’m experiencing a new conversational vibe whereby people (and Instagram) seem to be constantly giving me their best life hacks, opinions, adverts, advice, and “OK, but if I had [insert impossible reality here], I would… But then when I return with, “But what are you doing to protect YOUR culture?”—silence.

There’s a lot of output, but less “inner work.” And the algorithm loves people who churn out skin-deep content regularly.

Dear gentle reader, to quote another cultural icon: “If you can’t love yourself, how in the hell you gonna love somebody else?” Which brings me to this little column. Over the next few months (or at least until the world ends), I’m going to write about what I’m trying to learn. Not to change the world, but for once to not chase the perfect finish, the idealistic avatar I strive to be. And not a contrived journey of self-discovery. I want to show you more of what I wish I’d see: the absolute immaturity of a person learning and failing. Because I know, as a coach, I spend a lot of time reminding people that you’re in class because you’re going to spend the next hour failing LOADS. And once you learn something cool, you’re going to find the next hardest thing and go fail again. Which is life, isn’t it? And the exit row seat, the pleasures of failing and being prepared to find a solution out of it.

A little column here, on StageLync. There will be some stuff that won’t work, maybe a little oversharing here and there. A lot about my weird life on tour with one of the most divisive feminist groups around—all in the effort to feel a bit more humble and human for a change. I am, like many, one person trying not to die, be happy, and just keep it real, honestly. And I’d love it if you’d join me on this bi-monthly, 5-minute cultural self-reflection moment I’m calling Coach Myself.

I’m Sophie Duncan,

Love you,

Ba-bye.

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